You turn
off the radio, thoroughly creeped out, and sit in your car by the side
of the
road as the night settles around you.

After
turning on your hazard lights, you get out to stretch your legs and
have a smoke
to settle your rattled nerves.The
cigarette lights with the comforting, familiar crackle and you pull the
first
drag deep into your lungs.The smoke
warms and calms you.You are in flavor
country.

While you
lean against the idling car, eyes closed, puffing contentedly on your
smoke,
you tell yourself that you’d just been driving too long.Your mind was playing tricks.Of
course, other signals would bleed through
into an otherwise empty frequency.It
was the distortion that created the sound of your name.

Overactive
imagination.Too much time on the
road.Too long without a blissful
cigarette to even out your mind and body.

You are
snapped out of your reverie by a voice calling you from down the road.You look.There, way down the highway.A man
(or so it seems – it’s hard to tell in the tricky twilight) is
approaching.He calls out again.

“Hey
buddy!Can I get a lift to Lake
Doomhole?”

From where
you are he looks very old.He has long
white hair, a matching beard of impressive length and bushiness.You watch him for a moment, thinking.